CHAPTER XVI 



HOW THE GREENBOTTLE DOES ITS DUTY 



Sarcophagida 



AS we stroll by the roadside this bright morning, a breath of 

 air brushes ever so slightly across our path. It is a breeze 

 at first scented with blooming roses and wistaria, perfume 

 gathered from who knows where, and born by chance to our 

 nostrils. In an instant it passes on as mysteriously as it came, leaving 

 us bewildered by its change to the offensive. It is no longer pleasing. 

 Somewhere within, it hits a tiny blow that says decay. A moment 

 ago we had forgotten that such a thing were possible, but we are 

 awakened now quite rudely. Even today, when Nature displays her 

 beauty in a thousand different colors and voices her mood in as many 

 varied songs, there is such a thing as decay. 



Exploring the realm of thought for a moment, we wonder why the 

 shell of what was life, no matter how tiny, no matter how great, if left 

 uncovered, offends us. There must be an explanation to this, for 

 Nature does not create a condition or a state without a reason. Being 

 human, and therefore curious, we hunt about with this thought in 

 mind, first for the source of the odor. Its function we shall look into 

 later. 



Lying stiffly by the roadside, the result of human folly and igno- 

 rance we find the offending corpse, a tiny squirrel with lustrous coat, 

 marred only by the wound that caused its death. A broken stick and 

 an empty shotgun shell close by tell the story of the crime, sufficient 

 evidence to convince if not convict. 



Turning over the little animal, we find a surging mass of maggots, 



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